


Paranoia

by Stray_Lilly



Series: Intrusion [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bottom Lee Minho | Lee Know, Broken Bones, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Home Invasion, Knives, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Stalking, Survival Horror, Thriller, Top Kim Seungmin, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 14:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20909492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stray_Lilly/pseuds/Stray_Lilly
Summary: Minho is alone. He begins to hear noises. Things aren't where he left them. He's alone but he doesn't feel alone. Maybe it's just his imagination.Or maybe it's Kim Seungmin.





	Paranoia

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please read the tags before continuing. And of course, I don't condone Seungmin's behaviour. Also, if you like being home alone, this just might ruin that experience for you. Enjoy!

The sound of a few childish yells from outside startled Minho causing his wine to almost slosh out of his glass and onto the fluffy white carpet. That would have been a disaster. 

He placed his glass on the coffee table and lifted the curtain, peering at the kids on their cycles, no doubt on their way to their homes for dinner now that the sun was beginning to set. They gave the house curious stares, talking among themselves in whispers, probably surprised to see signs of life after so long.

If Chan was here, he would have compelled Minho to go out and greet the kids, offer them cookies, make small talk. On their first visit to view the house – Minho’s first at least – Chan had mentioned how all the kids in town liked playing by the lake in the summertime. Years ago Chan had been one of those kids. 

Where had Minho been when Chan was a little boy splashing in the river with his friends? Probably trying to help his drunk of a mother into bed. He shuddered at the thought and dropped the curtain. 

Despite everything, he’d turned out okay, he supposed.

He definitely hadn’t expected to end up in some old farmhouse in a small town where the neighbours all knew each other’s secrets. Hell, the only reason Minho had invested so much of his savings into buying this house was on Chan’s insistence. 

They’d been dating for three years. It was long enough, he’d said. They’d moved in together after the first year – or rather, Chan had lugged over his belongings to Minho’s bachelor pad. After their second year, they’d scouted out a bigger apartment – one with a guest bedroom for when their friends were too drunk to go home, and where they could both fit in the bathroom at the same time. And then, only two months ago, Chan spotted the real-estate advert in the newspaper. He’d woken Minho up excitedly, explaining that it was the house he used to live in as a kid.

Minho had always dreamed of his own house. But he’d always had a classy, modern home in mind – eco-friendly of course. This was drastically different. It was a little bigger than average. It wasn’t one of those farmhouses with acres of land for planting crops and breeding cattle. There was a small dried up vegetable garden out front but that was it. It definitely wasn’t the bustling city Minho was accustomed to. He would have been more enthusiastic about it if it was at least situated closer to the rest of the town.

But Chan said his parents always welcomed the peace and quiet. The rest of the town was only a twenty minute drive away, Chan had said. _ Twenty fucking minutes. _

Two storeys high with an old fashioned attic, basement and the classic white picket fence most married people dreamed of, Minho had turned his nose down at the farmhouse for a multitude of reasons.

One, he and Chan weren’t married. Two, it just screamed ‘we want kids someday’ and Minho didn’t want kids someday. Third, it was situated on the outskirts of a town where Chan had been welcomed like the long lost heir of some kingdom – Minho felt like an outcast – like he was back in high school again. _ A fucking nightmare _ . And four, it would take both of them an hour to get to work every day. _ A whole sixty fucking minutes. _

But Minho had agreed to put half of his savings into the bond, only because he didn’t want to lose Chan over something as insignificant as a house. He’d rot in this house until he was old if it meant Chan would be by his side. 

That was ironic, considering Minho had to supervise the moving process all by himself, and to make matters worse, he’d be spending his first night at the house by himself. Chan had been called away to some last minute conference about ethics halfway across the world.

Minho snapped a picture of the living room, and then took a selfie, sending both to Chan but not expecting a reply any time soon. He’d only managed to get the living room and master bedroom sorted out so far. A million other boxes were strewn all over the house but Minho was too exhausted to unpack anymore. He needed a bath – no, a shower – there were issues with the plumbing so the bathtub was off limits until Chan got back. Minho had wanted to call in a plumber, but Chan insisted he could get it done himself. 

_ Yeah, right. _

Minho rolled his eyes and made his way up the staircase. From the hundreds of times he’d trudged up and down he’d learned that the fifth stair and twelfth stair were both creaky. Chan needed to get that fixed. And for fuck’s sakes, he’d better not give Minho that bullshit about it holding sentimental value.

Where Chan thrived on sentimentality, Minho thrived on practicality. He didn’t want to find himself falling through the staircase one beautiful morning. He’d convinced Chan to have a few renovations done, which was why it had taken them two months to move in. He’d added a walk-in closet to the master bedroom, and converted the study into two separate offices so they wouldn’t get in the way of each other. Running a newspaper, and running a bank were two very different things – Chan and Minho were two very different people but they made it work.

Minho had also added a more modern stove and oven to the kitchen, despite Chan’s arguments that his mother had made amazing Christmas dinners using that old stove and oven that were now discarded in the basement. It’s not that Minho enjoyed cooking – but he planned on learning how to actually go about doing it, and he didn’t want to do it on an ancient stove. But he wasn’t going to lie to himself about it – he’d replaced the old kitchen equipment mainly out of spite, because it reminded Chan of all his perfect family dinners and reminded Minho of his lack of a family. 

Minho didn’t understand how the couple that bought the house from Chan’s parents had lived in it for over ten years without doing a single renovation. Apparently they’d been happy living in this piece of shit.

He paused on the staircase, wondering whether he should use the kitchen today. He’d driven into town to pick up a pizza for lunch (because there was no fucking pizza delivery in this town – what the fuck?), and he still had leftovers, but he’d wanted to try perfecting that banana cream pie recipe Chan’s mother had given him. He had a lot to prove to Chan where his cooking was concerned – Chan always insisted he was the better cook. 

He nodded to himself. After his shower. He needed to wash away his exhaustion before he toiled in the kitchen. He glanced back at the front door, wondering whether he’d locked it, and waving away his concern. Chan said this was one of the safest towns. _ We’re all family here, _ he’d said.

Minho had just reached the landing when he abruptly turned around and made his way downstairs again, sliding the security chain into place. It was stupid, but after years of living in the city he found it hard to let his guard down.

The bedroom was filled with the sound of boisterous laughter booming from the laptop which was haphazardly placed on his bed. He’d chosen some random movie, just eager to hear the sound of human voices. It made him feel less alone.

He hummed to himself choosing his favourite mint green silk nightgown to wear after his shower. The key to being sexy, was _ feeling _ sexy. And after his day of sweating and labouring, he had an overwhelming need to feel sexy. He touched the other gowns that hung temptingly on their hangers – the red nightgown Chan gifted him on their second anniversary in Japan, the blue one that he bought when visiting Chan’s parents in Australia, the purple one that he’d bought for a friend but decided to keep for himself – Minho loved collecting clothes ever since he could afford to – shirts, jeans, shoes, jackets – hence the need for a walk-in closet. 

He stripped, gleefully discarding his sweatpants and baggy white t-shirt now brown with dust. He held out a hand under the showerhead, testing the temperature of the water and only stepping into the glass cubicle when he was satisfied. 

He moaned in contentment as the hot water cascaded over his skin, the tension in his muscles slowly melting away. His blue hair-dye rippled down his body, and he was glad that his hair would lose some of its bright colour – it had been Chan’s idea and he wasn’t fond of it. He lathered a generous amount of lavender scented shower-gel between his palms. He massaged the foam onto his skin – palms sliding over his arms, all the way down his sides, just like Chan had done the night before he left. Over his nipples… Down… Down to the two sacs between his legs… He opened his legs just a little more, leaning back against the glass wall, imagining Chan’s fingertips massaging his thighs, hand over Minho’s as it rubs down against his hardening dick. Minho cupped his balls giving them a gentle squeeze along the way, then slid his fingers over to his perineum, applying pressure with the tips of his fingers.

“Chan…” he moaned his boyfriend’s name, opening his eyes, and finding himself in darkness. “Fuck.” The sun had gone down completely, and he fucking forgot to put the lights on before he came into the bathroom.

Minho hated being interrupted when he was jerking off but standing under running water in the darkness suddenly wasn’t so appealing anymore. He did his best to wash off his hair conditioner, before turning the water off. He turned around to open the shower door and yelped at the face staring back at him, holding onto one of the shelves to stop himself from slipping. He could’ve kicked himself. He was such a fucking loser. Who gets scared of their own reflection?

He opened the shower door and reached for the towel. But the hook on the wall was empty. What the fuck? He squinted into the darkness, trying to see whether it had fallen onto the floor. He even felt around with his feet. _ Nothing. _

He’d forgotten the towel too. He was _ that _ fucking tired. He’d complain to Chan for sure. If he didn’t have that dumb conference…

He waved his hands in front of him, feeling for the sliding the door that separated the bathroom from their bedroom, but only feeling empty space. He frowned. Oh, that’s right. He _ hadn’t _ closed the door. He didn’t need to, so he hadn’t closed it, right? _ Yeah, that’s right _.

He stepped into the bedroom, blinking to adjust to the darkness. That’s when he smelled it. Just a whiff of it. Pine? Citrus? He furrowed his brows, trying to ascertain the source of it. He heard a rustle and jumped in fright, only to see the window open and the curtain flustering about in the wind.

He crossed the room nimbly, able to access the light switch. He paused before flicking it on, feeling a sense of déjà vu. No, he was just being paranoid. The lights _ hadn’t _ been on – he was tired, and he’d forgotten. 

But his laptop… It should have been on. Had the movie finished already? He pulled the laptop towards him, frowning at the dark screen. Well fuck – the battery was obviously dead. Didn’t matter now. He placed it on the bedside table. He’d charge it when he needed it. 

With the room was basking in light again, he spotted his towel on the bed and made quick work of changing into his underwear and nightgown. He took a look at himself in the floor-length mirror and smiled mischievously. He’d bet he could make Chan hop onto an earlier flight, and maybe even be home by lunchtime tomorrow. 

He turned on his heel, eager to begin his plan, but froze in place. Slowly, he turned to re-examine himself in the mirror. He blinked. Why had he chosen the _ red _ nightgown? The green was his favourite. Oh, but he was missing Chan and this one had been a gift from him – _ that’s why. _ It made sense.

But the black lace panties…

He’d never choose these to wear with this gown. Would he? Oh, but he hadn’t _ really _ taken great care to pick out his underwear today. He’d just picked anything from that drawer… Right?

_ Right. _

But he should just take a look… 

He made his way back to the walk-in closet, glancing at rack that held his nightgowns. They all hung undisturbed, exactly as they should be.

What the fuck was wrong with him? One glass of wine and he was losing his fucking shit over a nightgown.

He reached into one of the bedside drawers, pulling out the maroon box that held his personal supplies. He set everything neatly on the bed and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. He found a soft jazz playlist, before turning the video camera on and placing it on the dresser, so that the bed was in full view.

“Hi, Channie,” he spoke, slowly backing away from the camera, his hips swaying to the beat of the music. “Miss me?”

His sex-life had been fairly adventurous before he met Chan. Chan, on the other hand… He’d given and received a blowjob or two, but the boring kind of sex – the fuck then fall asleep kind – had been a regular occurrence until Minho helped him explore a little.

But as experimental as Minho was, he hated cameras. He’d only done this once before, as an early birthday present for Chan last year. 

He could feel his cheeks begin to heat up, but he kept his eyes on the camera. Slowly, he slipped the nightgown off his shoulders, letting it pool at his feet. 

He trailed his fingertips over his nipples, hooking the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth as he trailed further down. He traced the floral pattern of the lace, his cock hardening beneath his fingertips, the head visible, jutting out above the hem.

He licked his lips and began to slide his panties down. He turned around when they were halfway down his thighs, bending to give the camera a full view of his ass, stepping out of his panties and clambering onto the bed.

He stared at the camera while he slicked his fingers in lube. “How many fingers, Chan?” he raised his eyebrows. “Two? Maybe three?”

He pressed his face into the pillow, raising his hips in the air. He spread his cheeks, giving the camera a view of his puckering hole. 

_ So pink, so pretty _, Chan always said. Minho delighted in the way Chan would look at it. He could imagine Chan’s face when he watched the video. He could imagine the way he’d suck in a breath at the sight, his lip clenched between his teeth, his eyes hungry.

Minho spread his legs wider and placed a hand between his thighs. He gasped when he pushed the tip of his index finger into his hole. It slid in easily and he let out a stuttering gasp, pushing in until the second knuckle, and then all the way in. He began thrusting in and out, adding a second finger and moaning louder than he needed to, just for Chan’s benefit. 

His slick fingers made squelching sounds as he began moving his hips, riding his fingers. He closed his eyes, imagining the sound Chan’s cock always made as he pounded into Minho. 

“Ah Channie!” He sounded dramatic, but he knew it would be a turn on for Chan.

He added a third finger, feeling frustrated that he’d never been able to reach his own prostate this way. But he kept fucking into himself. _ This is for Chan _, he reminded himself.

Anyway, he still had the dildo. That at least, was long enough.

He propped himself up on an elbow, slowly beginning to slide his fingers out of his hole. His eyes found the bedside table where he’d left the flesh-coloured dildo. He paused, his fingers still inside himself. 

He hadn’t finished his wine? The glass was filled halfway with his favourite red wine. He didn’t remember bringing it upstairs. He remembered almost spilling some on the carpet, and then… Then he’d drunk more. But he obviously hadn’t finished it. He must’ve brought it upstairs to finish after his shower. 

He realized that he’d been dwelling on this with his fingers still shoved up his ass. Fuck, he wasn’t even in the mood anymore. Fuck it. He’d delete the video and make a new one before bed. 

It was time to make banana cream pie. 

For a minute, maybe two, he stood on the landing peering at the floor below. He imagined what it would be like to have a big family in this house. Two kids, a dog, a few cats. He could imagine them all coming in through the front door, covered in snow, excited for dinner. _ The perfect family. _ He and Chan would have to be perfect parents. And that was what brought Minho back to reality. He wasn’t perfect, as much as he pretended to be for Chan. He’d fucked up one too many times. He’d covered his tracks well so Chan never had any idea – and that just made it more fucked up.

Kids? Fuck no. Minho couldn’t even raise himself decently, let alone another human being. That perfect family fantasy was just that – a stupid fantasy. He should busy himself with better fantasies – ones that could become a reality. Like Chan fucking him on every surface in the house.

They should start in the kitchen. There was something exhilarating about being fucked on a counter where Chan’s mother had prepared their perfect family meals. He hoped that wouldn’t seem unappealing to Chan. Then again, Chan wasn’t fucked up like him. He should probably just keep that fantasy to himself.

His foot poised on the topmost stair, he clenched the bannister tight when he heard it from above. Each thud against the wood made the sound resonate throughout the whole attic and carry down below. 

Minho’s stomach clenched tighter with every thump. Rats. Of course there were rats in the attic. He could imagine the kind – fat, hairy, ugly diseased things with red eyes and sharp teeth. In his mind he could hear his mother complaining to their building caretaker about the rat infestation. _They crawl on us while we sleep_, she’d complain. _They nibble on us, take chunks out of me, out of my kid. _Little Minho would peer from behind her, dirty fingernails scratching at the red bites on his arms. 

Minho’s stomach had tied itself into a knot, which in one swift movement had unravelled and emptied itself. He stared in disgust at his vomit-covered hands, slimy chunks of undigested pizza glued to his fingers. 

“Fuck.” The roof of his mouth burned and his saliva tasted bitter. He needed to clean up.

He scrubbed his hands with soap, washing them off with hot water. He swore when he saw the flecks of vomit on his nightgown. He slipped it off and into the empty wash basket. _ So much for feeling sexy. _

On his way out of his bedroom he glanced at the trapdoor leading up to the attic, and hurried downstairs. 

Fuck baking. Fuck the banana pie. Fuck Chan’s perfect mother. He wasn’t in the mood for an attempt at domesticating himself for Chan.

But he needed something sweet to take away the bitterness from his mouth. Even the toothpaste hadn’t helped.

He dug in the freezer for the tub of choc-hazelnut ice cream. He sat on the kitchen stool, snorting out a laugh at the realization that he was almost naked, save for the scanty lace panties. Chan would love coming home to this – he had a few times.

Minho hadn’t unpacked all the cutlery yet so he he’d settled for a teaspoon. With some effort, he scooped some into his mouth, allowing it to soothe his burning throat. His eyes opened to the sound of his phone vibrating against the kitchen counter. His eyes lit up before he’d even checked the caller ID. Chan?

_ No. Not Chan. _

He stared at the screen, his finger hovering, unsure which way to swipe. “Shit,” he drew his hand back, letting the phone vibrate, stop, then light up as Jisung tried again. “I told him not to fucking call me anymore.”

But the self-destructive part of Minho urged him to give in, to answer, to fuck up again. But he couldn’t. No, he could – but he shouldn’t.

He rejected the call and proceeded to switch it off, before sending it sliding across the counter, dangerously close to the edge. It didn’t fall, but Minho would have welcomed the end to his temptation.

Minho hopped off the stool, his mood soured by Jisung. Fuck everything. He just wanted to sleep. He made his way into each room on the ground floor, turning the lights off, the panic only setting in when he was in total darkness. 

He reached for the nearest light switch – the living room. He’d leave this one on. It illuminated the staircase enough for him to get back upstairs safely.

He trudged up the stairs, his anger at Chan suddenly flaring. How could he go on a trip the day before they were supposed to move in? How could he make Minho do everything by himself? How could he leave Minho alone in this ugly fucking house?

Lacking the usual veneration he had for his clothes, he threw his nightgown onto the ground and slid under the bed covers. He tossed and turned, his body unable to find any comfort in bed. Yielding to his sleeplessness, he stared up at the ceiling. He focused on the sounds outside his window – crickets, an owl in the distance, the wind rustling the leaves of the trees – so different from the city. But slowly, he drifted out of consciousness, his eyelids feeling heavier, his body easing into the mattress. 

He dreamed of Chan. He dreamed of Chan’s lips devouring his body, making their way down his chest, his fingers fondling Minho’s thighs. He loved Minho’s thighs. Even after he fucked Minho, the imprints of his fingers remained on Minho’s thighs, reminiscent of how hard he’d gripped them when he slammed his cock into him. He could feel Chan’s fingers now, kneading his thighs, fingers digging into his flesh. 

But this wasn’t right. Chan always smelled like vanilla and coconut – that body wash he’d been using for years, a refusal to use any other. 

Now, he smelled like citrus. _ Citrus and pine. _

He woke with a jolt, staring wide eyed into the darkness. He licked his lips, wishing he’d brought a bottle of water upstairs with him. He shivered when he felt a cold spray hit the side of his face. “What the f –”

Oh.

The window. The catch must have come undone because of the wind – Chan needed to fix that. He made a mental note to tell him so. It was raining too. That must have woken him. He clambered out of bed, shutting the window. He tottered over to the bathroom, using a towel to wipe the water off his face. He heard it then, the creak of a door opening, the click of the sockets as it was shut.

Feeling as though his knees were about to become unhinged, he made his way back into the bedroom. He gasped at the light flooding in from under the door. He’d put the hallway light off. He was sure of it. The living room light shouldn’t be this bright up here. 

With trepid footsteps, he approached the door. He pressed his ear to the wood, listening, listening… _ Nothing. _

No.

_ Something. _

Metal against wood. Louder, closer, closer, louder.

Minho backed away from the door, his chest clenching, his heartbeat erratic. Panic snatched him, caging him in its claws so he could move no further.

His eyes widened, two round orbs of terror. The jarring metal on wood sound had stopped, replaced by heavy footsteps, plodding onto the floorboards. The footsteps stopped, and the light under the door was blacked out by a shadow.

His hand shaking, he reached out, slowly turning the key, locking the door. He flinched at the loud thump on the door. A screeching sound followed, something scouring against the wooden surface. 

A putrid stench wafted under his nostrils and his urine trickled down his thighs, pooling at his feet.

_ Run, hide _, he willed himself to move, to do something, but his shivering body had malfunctioned. Then the shadow grew thinner, the footsteps backed away.

Minho listened, not daring to breathe. _ Creak _ . The twelfth stair _ . Creak. _ The fifth stair. Downstairs. They were going downstairs.

He needed to call the police. He needed his phone. But it was in the kitchen.

There was no way he was going down there. His eyes flicked around the room, finding his car key on the vanity. He grabbed it and rushed to the window, undoing the catch. He could do it – he could get away.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Minho was afraid of heights. He stared at the dried flower bushes below, wondering how much damage he’d do to himself. Then he thought of the shadow – the person out there, in his house – the intruder. How much damage would they do to him?

The cold rain hit him like wall of ice and it dawned on him that he was still naked save for his scanty underwear. He didn’t give a fuck. He clambered onto the ledge, everything in his body screaming at him not to do it, his brain telling him it was his only choice.

He swung his legs over, his fingers keeping a stringent grip on the ledge despite his urgency to escape. But he had to let go. He screwed his eyes shut, doing his best to reel in his shriek as he fell into the bushes below.

His eyes opened wide in agony and he felt pricks of pain as the thorns pierced his bare flesh, hundreds of needles all stabbing him at once. For a moment he just let the pain consume him before his adrenalin kicked him into action again. He rolled off the bushes, landing onto the muddy ground with a thud. 

His eyes stinging with tears, he berated himself for being such a big useless baby. 

_ A big useless baby _ – his mother had called him that, hadn’t she.

He shook the thought away and attempted to stand on his feet, but slipped on the mud and ended up face down again. On his knees, he stifled a sob and wiped some of the muck off his cheeks. He dug his fingers into the sludge and pushed himself upright.

The garage was right there. Just a few feet away. He staggered forward, the mud easing some of the pain from the incisions on his flesh. 

He propped himself against the garage door. Now he just needed to open –

_ The key. Where was the key? _ He’d had it in his hand when he jumped. He looked around wildly but the layer of darkness had made everything on the ground indistinguishable. 

He blundered towards the bushes, and fell to his knees. He pushed aside the thorny stems, flinching every time a thorn tore into his flesh, pulling his skin like tiny hooks. He swept his hands on the ground, feeling only the thick sludge beneath them. _ Nothing. _

His shoulders slumped and he began to sob, despite the voice in his head telling him not to give up, to get the fuck out of there, to go –

_ Squelch _. He heard heavy footsteps in the mud, slowly approaching him from behind. He closed his eyes, waiting for the impact of something – a knife, a punch, a kick, something. But he only heard the jingle of keys and the sound of them falling in front of him.

Minho opened his eyes in confusion, staring at the car key with the garage remote attached. 

“Go,” the voice gave him chills and he didn’t dare turn around. Wasn’t that the first rule? Never look at their face so they don’t have a reason to kill you. “I’m helping you.” His voice simmered in kindness, but it was the underlying threat that made Minho sick with fear. 

His fingers closed around the keys and he pressed the button on the remote, a flash of relief at the whirring sound of the garage door. He’d be fast. A quick dash around the intruder and into the garage – it was possible.

He clambered to his feet, slipped, tried again. The rain was beating down heavier, the sludge turning into pools of mud. But he ran, pushed past the intruder, not sparing him a glance, and ran. 

He stifled a sob of relief when he stumbled into the garage. He made for the driver’s side but stopped in his tracks. Fuck. No. This couldn’t be happening. 

The tires on his car had been slashed, the rubber split open. He backed away, trying to calculate how fast he’d have to run to get to the gate. And then, twenty minutes to reach town. No – twenty minutes by car. How long would it take on foot?

But he had no choice. He had to –

Fingers gripped his hair, startling him into a scream. 

“Well wasn’t that fun?” the intruder wrenched Minho’s head back. “But we should head inside now. You’re not exactly dressed for the weather.” 

Minho hadn’t been expecting it – the sudden kick aimed at his left shin. He doubled over in pain, sinking to his knees on the cemented floor.

Another kick, this time aimed at his back, forced him face down on the floor. “Please,” he lifted his head. “Please –”

He felt a weight on his back as the man straddled him from behind. “Please!” he begged now. “Don’t do this. Don’t. I can give you money. I’m a bank manager. Is it passcodes you want? Alarm codes?”

He heard a cruel laugh that made his blood turn cold. His hands were being wrenched back and he struggled to move, flailing his arms and kicking his legs back to resist the man’s hold on him. His fingers were in Minho’s hair again. “Please, st –”

A sharp pain coursed through his skull and his vision slowly faded to black.

_ “There’s no one around. We should get in,” Jisung gestured to lake, its surface so still you’d think it was a blue sheet of cotton spread over the ground. _

_ Minho shook his head. “No way. Can you imagine all the germs…?” _

_ “Scaredy cat,” Jisung whispered in his ear, prompting Minho to begin stripping, a defiant look in his eyes. _

_ He hesitated, his fingers clutching the waistband of his underwear. But Jisung made that decision for him, slipping the red satin panties slowly down his thighs. “We’re alone, aren’t we?” Jisung teased. _

_ Minho took a step forward, gasping as the cold sheet of blue engulfed his bare body. _

A shriek erupted from his throat when he woke. His body seemed to lock itself into a temporary paralysis as he sunk further into the cold water. Clumps of mud swam around him, disintegrating and turning the water brown. The cuts on his body stung when they made contact with the water, and he could see several blood covered thorns still piercing his skin. A number of discoloured bruises had formed under his skin, swollen and painful every time Minho tried to move.

_ Tried. _ Because his hands were tied behind his back, and his ankles bound together.

He tore his gaze away from his body and took in his surroundings. He was in the bathtub in the guest bathroom – the one downstairs, just down the hallway from the living room. 

Muddy water sloshed out of the tub as he shifted his body, trying to push himself upright but only grunted in pain, his legs cramping from being in one position too long. How long had he been like this? And the intruder… where was he?

Minho’s eyes filled with newfound panic as he recollected how the intruder had toyed with him, made him believe he could use the car. Who the fuck was this person? And where the fuck was he? Had he left? Did he just want to terrorize Minho for a while? Was this his version of a sick joke?

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Before he could remind himself not to, he looked at the man in the doorway. He stared, his brows furrowed, his jaw slack. “You…” He tried to recall the name. Seungmin? “Kim Seungmin.”

Minho and Chan had made a booking to view the house the day after they saw the advertisement. The entire drive to the house Chan had been pointing out his favourite places. _ This is where we played hide and seek. This is where we had ice cream. This is where we had dinner on Fridays. _ Minho had kept a polite smile on his face, trying not to show his envy and his annoyance that Chan’s childhood had been straight out of the pages of a children’s novel – the ones Minho had read and dreamed about living in. 

They’d spent an hour or so at the house, chatting to the real estate agent and just when they were about to leave a worn out blue Corvette had pulled into the driveway. 

Chan introduced Minho to Seungmin, said that they grew up together. Seungmin had heard through the grapevine that Chan was in town, and wanted to see his childhood role model again. _ How sweet _, Minho had thought. 

Chan had laughed about it on their way home. He explained that Seungmin had been a nice kid, just a bit of a loner. Still, Minho thought it had been nice of him to drive all the way to the house just to say hello, even if he seemed awfully cheerful, and smelled like a weird mixture of pine and citrus.

And here he was now, in the same oversized purple hoodie that he’d worn when Minho first met him. And he smiled, a smile so bright and cheerful, that Minho almost thought he was there to save him, would have thought so if it weren’t for the knife in his hand, and the scent of pine and citrus that followed him. 

“I got bored watching,” Seungmin chuckled, leaning against the wall. “I mean, there’s no fun watching muck wash off an unconscious person.”

Minho blanched. So it had been him. He’d been watching, fucking around with Minho this whole time.

“Sorry about those bruises, by the way,” Seungmin grimaced, but he didn’t look sorry. “I was a bit impatient dragging you inside.’

“Why?” Minho asked. “Why would you do this?” He tried to loosen his bindings, tried to buy time before this sick fuck did whatever he was there to do. “I thought you were Chan’s friend. He was your role model, wasn’t he?”

Seungmin nodded, twirling the knife in his grip. The shiny gold handle of the knife reflected the bathroom light, momentarily blinding Minho. When Minho could see again, Seungmin was already seated at the perimeter of the tub, running the sharp edge of the blade along the porcelain surface.

Minho tried to shift further back, panic escalating.

“Chan was the first person I watched – _ really _ watched,” he smiled as though recalling a fond childhood memory. “There’s a lovely oak tree just a few feet away from his bedroom window. It was the perfect spot. I’d follow him home from school every day, and while he made his way up to his room, I made my way up the tree. I could see everything. I was young. Just sixteen. He was a senior. At first the only thing of interest he’d ever do was jerk off. And I learned how to do it just by watching him. Perfect role model, right?”

Minho furrowed his brows. “What does that have to do with m –”

The knife was pressed against his throat in an instant. “Shut the fuck up and listen,” Seungmin spat, his smile fading into a snarl.

Minho trembled, eyes on the blade. ‘I – I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

Seungmin lowered the knife and continued. “Then he started bringing guys over. Boyfriends. He couldn’t keep one for more than two months. And they never did more than make out. Oh, there was one who went down on him. I don’t think he liked it much though. The expression on his face said as much. Anyway, then he went off to college. And I only saw him when he came back during his vacations. And sometimes he brought guys back with him. You know, well-dressed, polite looking guys who his parents fawned over. And at night they’d fuck. He was experienced by then – I could see. Again, it was always a different guy every vacation. They never lasted with him. But that was my fault.”

Minho’s hands stopped trying to work the binds, and he stared at Seungmin in confusion. “What does that mean? Your fault?”

Seungmin smiled to himself, balancing the tip of the knife on the tub. “That’s a story for another time, Minho. I almost left you alone, you know. Almost. But you fucked up. You know that, right? If I didn’t see you both at the lake, I wouldn’t have known about it.”

Minho paled. The lake… That was two months ago. Jisung wanted to go somewhere they’d be alone, somewhere away from their stress, their worries. Minho knew the house was empty. “So you saw…”

“Yes,” Seungmin chuckled. “I saw you and that bitch. I saw you in the lake. And then I saw you fucking in Chan’s old bedroom. Nice of you to do it where I could get a good view. But it was so disappointing Minho. I was ready for Chan to finally be happy. I was ready to let him go. But you fucked that up for him, for me.”

Minho couldn’t believe it. This whole thing was happening because he cheated? Fuck, it wasn’t as though he loved Chan any less. It wasn’t as though he actually felt anything for Jisung, or the others. 

“It didn’t mean anything,” Minho shook his head. The restraints were starting to cut into his skin. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. “Look, I’ll come clean to Chan. I’ll apologise. I’ll do anything. Please just let me go.”

Seungmin stopped twirling his knife and stared. “Of course you’re going to apologise Minho. And you’re going to pay the price for what you’ve done. I’m going to make sure of that.” He reached into the water, wrenching Minho out by his bound wrists. “Let’s show Chan what a slut you are.”

He hooked an arm around Minho’s waist, lifting him until he was out of the bathtub, brown water sloshing onto the tiles. Minho gasped in pain when his back made impact with the floor, sending a painful vibration throughout his body. 

Seungmin used the tip of his boot to flip Minho onto his front, gripping the rope that bound his hands together. And then Minho was being dragged across the floor like he was some kind of carcass. 

He tried to kick out and squirm out of Seungmin’s grasp, but the brunette held on to him tightly. The wooden hallway floor scraped against Minho’s already lacerated skin, pushing the remaining thorns further into his skin. Perhaps what was most painful was that his lace panties were now torn into shreds and his dick throbbed against the harshness of the floor. He clenched his jaw, a cry of pain tunnelling from inside his chest and escaping from between his gritted teeth.

Seungmin flung him onto the living room floor without a care. He lifted his head, trying to get a grip on his surroundings, a way to escape, a way to get out of this fucked up mess. A backpack lay on the couch – Seungmin’s. 

Next to the backpack was a baseball bat, shiny metal gleaming under the living room light. Seungmin followed his gaze, his eyes lighting up. “I bet you haven’t seen this one before,” he held the baseball bat in his grip. “Chan’s. I got into baseball because of him. He was team captain, you know.” He rotated the bat in his grip, swinging it over his shoulder. “It was up in the attic. Did you hear me there earlier?”

Minho was stupid enough to feel a wave of relief that it had been Seungmin and not rats like he’d suspected. He immediately berated himself. What was he fucking thinking? There was nothing relieving about this situation, nothing more fucked up than what was going to be done with him. And he could see, from the dangerous look in Seungmin’s eyes, he could _ see _ what was going to happen.

“I thought you might come up to check out the noise,” Seungmin chuckled. “It would have been interesting to get this game started sooner than I planned. You see, it’s always nice when things go to plan,” he stepped closer to Minho, looking down at him, balancing the baseball bat on his chest. “But when things don’t go to plan, it’s exhilarating!”

_ Fucking lunatic. _

Minho eyed the knife that was in a brown leather sheath hooked onto Seungmin’s belt. The knife’s sharp edge was tempting when he could feel his restraints cut into his skin, but the only way he’d be able to actually use the knife was if he had time to get to it, time to work it into his grip, time to cut himself free. Seungmin wasn’t going to let that happen.

“We’ll use this later,” Seungmin pulled the baseball bat back, placing it onto the couch. And the knife was in his hand again.

Fuck. Minho squirmed, trying to force his wrists apart but only causing more abrasions on his skin.

Seungmin hunched down beside him, pressing the tip of the knife on the frayed waistband of Minho’s underwear. 

Minho clenched his stomach, feeling the sharp tip press into his skin. He screwed his eyes shut. “Just do what you have to do,” he pleaded. “Whatever you’re here to do. Do it.”

Seungmin clicked his tongue admonishingly. “There’s no rush, Minho.”

It took a few moments for Minho to realize that he could no longer feel the knife pressing into his skin. And… oh. His legs. He could move them. 

He glanced to the side and saw the discarded piece of rope. Yes, this was it. He could use his legs now. He could run. He could get away.

Seungmin carded his fingers through Minho’s hair, hauling him upright so that he was on his knees. 

Minho could do it now. Stand up. Run. 

But he couldn’t. The muscles in his legs refused to obey the commands given by his brain. He tried to push himself up onto his feet but he stumbled back down again. Not having use of his hands didn’t help.

“Give it a few minutes,” Seungmin gave him a wry smile from where he was seated on the couch now, leaning forward so that he was eye level with Minho. “You really think you’ll be able to run after being tied up that long? Don’t be so fucking dense. Try again in ten minutes. Flex your feet, get the oxygen flowing again. And then you can run.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, so sincerely, that Minho just stared. “You – you want me to run?”

Seungmin shrugged. “It should be entertaining. What do I have to worry about? I’ll catch you, Minho. No matter how fast you think you can run, and assuming you can actually make it outside, I’ll catch you because I _ know _ this place. I’ve lived in this town for twenty three years.”

Minho looked at him in disbelief. Would he really let him run? Would he really take that chance? He had to be lying…

“Alright,” Minho nodded. “Let’s make it entertaining. I’ll play your game. Let me run. Let’s see whether you can catch me.”

“Well, it’s nice of you to be so agreeable,” Seungmin looked pleased. “I know just how to get this started.” He pulled a camera out of his backpack and pressed a few buttons before positioning it on the sidetable. “Make it look hot, Minho. I want to jerk off to this later.”

“What?” Minho’s eyes widened. “Make what look hot?” He tried to scramble backwards when Seungmin stood up and approached him.

Seungmin gripped his hair, holding him in place, tilting his head back to look at him. “You like having a cock shoved down your throat, don’t you?”

Minho stopped squirming. If it was just that Seungmin wanted, he’d give it to him. If he wanted Minho to suck him off, if he wanted to fuck Minho, he’d let him. 

“Oh, you like the sound of that?” Seungmin sounded amused. “Such a good slut, Minho.” 

He brought his knife up to Minho’s lips and Minho flinched back. “Open,” he commanded.

Minho looked up at him in panic and shook his head. “Please –”

“I said open up!” Seungmin’s eyes flashed. “Open your dirty mouth Minho!”

Minho’s body trembled as he forced his mouth open. He kept his eyes focused on the handle of the knife as the blade was wedged into his mouth. He could taste the cold metal on his tongue. 

His eyes flicked up to Seungmin’s face. What did he want him to do?

“Fuck, you’re so dumb!” Seungmin released Minho’s hair, slapping him across his face, causing the knife to graze the inside of his cheek. Minho gasped in pain, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. “Suck it.”

It took him two seconds to realize the extent of Seungmin’s command. His jaw trembled as he steeled himself to do it. He closed his mouth around the blade, tongue slithering along the flat surface, careful to avoid the jagged edge.

But Seungmin wasn’t satisfied.

Grabbing a fistful of Minho’s hair, he began to thrust the knife. The knife carved a path in and out of his mouth, slowly slicing into his gums, his cheeks, and his tongue. Minho began to sob around the blade, crying tears of pain, and frustration that he couldn’t do anything about the pain. The bloody saliva mixture pooling in his mouth made the blade slippery so that it slipped further and further back into his mouth, deathly close to his throat.

Without warning, Seungmin wrenched the knife from his mouth, causing Minho’s tongue to split open where the knife had sliced through. He let out a gut-wrenching cry, his jaw quivering as the blood trickled out of his mouth.

Seungmin ran his fingers over the flat of the blade, collecting Minho’s blood onto his fingertips. “I should cut out your tongue. Or your pretty lips. Maybe both. Or maybe, maybe I I should shove this knife up your ass.”

Minho’s eyes widened. Seungmin’s tone told him it wasn’t an empty threat. In fact, it didn’t sound like a threat at all – he said it so matter-of-factly, almost like opening a closet and deciding what to wear. Except, he was deciding whether to cut out Minho’s tongue or lips, or to – to… Minho couldn’t even think it.

And Minho wasn’t going to wait around to find out which he’d pick. He swivelled to the right, using his bound wrists and the coffee table to push himself to his feet which had regained some of their ability to function. 

Seungmin watched apathetically, his mouth pressed into a thin line. His lack of concern, made Minho doubt his chance of escape. But he eyed the living room archway just behind Seungmin and made a run for it. 

He heard footsteps behind him but they didn’t sound hurried. He reached the front door and turned the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. Locked. 

“I left the key upstairs,” Seungmin leaned against the wall beside him. “You should get it. It’s on your dresser.”

Minho backed away from him, eyeing him in distrust. 

Seungmin gestured to the staircase with a tilt of his head. “Go on. You want to get out, don’t you?”

He ran for the staircase, almost stumbling on the second step, grabbing the banister to keep from falling. Seungmin’s approaching footsteps only spurred him on and he reached the bedroom, panting and frantic. 

The key – where is it? 

He hovered over the dresser, flinging skin products out of the way, trying to find the key that deep down he knew wasn’t there.

“Oops.” 

He whipped around to see Seungmin standing in the doorway, dangling the key in his hand. 

“Fuck you,” Minho spat. If he had to toss himself out of another window he’d do it. Anything to get away from this psychotic bastard.

The window was shut – Seungmin’s work. Before Minho could begin to undo the latch, his head was wrenched back by Seungmin.

“Want to get through the window?” Seungmin asked, his voice sickeningly sweet. “I’ll help you.”

Minho’s head was slammed into the window with a robust force. He registered the sound of cracking glass before he could register the pain that reverberated throughout his body, the root of it centred in his forehead.

The room spun. Or was he spinning? He tried to take a step backwards, but found himself on the floor on all fours. And his hands – he could use his hands. They weren’t tired anymore. And Seungmin… Minho lifted his head, trying to locate him. 

“I told you, you won’t get far.”

Seungmin sounded amused. And Minho still couldn’t see him. He couldn’t lift his head more than inch without feeling as though he was at the centre of a whirlpool. 

“Now, that you’ve had your game of run and get caught,” Seungmin snickered, “shall we get down to the business end of things?”

Minho looked back over his shoulder. “And what’s that? What do you want?”

He felt a hand trailing over his spine, and warm breath over his skin, and he knew. If he could get his hands on something, anything that can be used as a weapon, anything that he could use to defend himself… 

Seungmin’s hand was just below his spine, his fingers slipping under the waistband of Minho’s panties.

There was nothing up here in the bedroom, but if he could get to the box with the cutlery downstairs… It was in the hallway just outside the kitchen. 

He felt the cold touch of metal, and the scraps of his underwear were cut away from him.

A few seconds. It would take a few seconds to get a knife out of the box. Minho could do it. He’d stand up, take Seungmin by surprise and bolt downstairs. 

“I liked these,” Seungmin said, discarding the scraps of lace. “It was nice of you to wear the ones I picked out for you.”

Minho took a deep breath, fingers digging into the carpeted hardwood floor. He pulled himself into a kneeling position before stumbling to his feet. He heard Seungmin’s sharp intake of breath, the register of surprise, but didn’t look back to see his reaction.

Minho didn’t get far. The splintering pain in his side brought him to his knees, the wind knocked out of him, his mouth open in a silent scream. He clutched his side, looking up at Seungmin who towered over him with the baseball bat. He raised the bat over his shoulder again, his gaze cold, but his lips curved into a smile.

Minho knew it was coming. His muscles tightened in anticipation, as if that would soften the blow. 

_ Crack. _

The wall of pain was crippling. It took Minho to a far off place, some primitive space deep inside himself where he knows how to cope with the kind of pain that precedes death. With every intake of breath, colourful spots fill his vision, merging and disintegrating like the abstract artwork Chan adored so much.

“It just a few broken ribs,” Seungmin clicked his tongue, like Minho was overreacting. “But if you try to run again, Minho, I’ll bash your skull in. Shall we try this again?”

“Don’t,” he choked out, and it was all he could manage. But he wanted to beg.  _ You’ve done enough. Please leave me alone. I won’t do it again. I won’t cheat again. I’ll never fuck for the rest of my life if you just leave me alone. _

“Remember to smile for the camera,” Seungmin smirked. He gestured to the dresser and Minho lifted his head off the floor to follow his gaze. He had the video camera set up to witness everything. 

Seungmin wedged the tip of his boot beneath Minho’s torso, upending him onto his back. He kneeled beside Minho, his knife dangling lazily between his fingers. “Two strokes, my father always said. One to decapitate the beast, and the next to kill. Here’s the first one, Minho.”

It was quick – so quick that Minho thought he might have imagined it. He might have imagined the flash of silver plunging into his stomach. He might have imagined the needle-like pain that cast its net, incarcerating every inch of his entrails, setting every inch of his body on fire.

But he could see it – the shiny knife handle protruding from his stomach, just below his belly button. It wasn’t like you saw in the movies – no spray of blood, nothing painting the walls red. It was like snipping into a piece of tarp, his skin frayed around edges giving just a glimpse of the raw pink flesh beneath. Only a small trickle of blood ran down his stomach, too small for the amount of pain he was going through. 

Seungmin wrapped his hand around the handle and wrenched it free from Minho’s flesh. Minho cried out, a curdling, animalistic scream that sounded foreign even to his own ears. It was like someone had reached inside him and was pulling out all his guts with their bare hands.

And there it was – that spray of blood. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough to decorate Seungmin’s hoodie with red specks. 

_ Purple and red look nice together _ , Minho decided.

He lay limp on the floor, aware that he wasn’t dead, but feeling as though he was in some kind of limbo – he could feel the pain, but everything else was muted, like it was all happening behind some glass screen – there but not really there.

He could hear Seungmin’s scuffle in front of him, the unbuckling of his belt, his zipper, his jeans falling to the floor. His legs were spread, he was pinned down like a butterfly.

_ Like a butterfly _ . The thought made him smile, made him imagine butterflies covering the white ceiling he was staring at. The flutter of their colourful wings distracted him from Seungmin’s fingers. 

“So nice of you to prep for me,” Seungmin sighed in satisfaction. “I liked the little show you put on earlier. Too bad you cut it short. But we’ll finish it now, won’t we?”

His words sounded muffled to Minho, akin to someone holding a muzzle over his mouth. Minho laughed at this. But something told him to stop, that this wasn’t anything to be happy about. That he should be trying to plot a way out of this. 

But it was like a switch had flipped on in his brain, enlightening the situation for him. He was going to die. And that was fine. This was the end. 

He looked at the butterflies, focusing on their brittle bodies – antennae that could be pulled out of their heads, wings that could be torn clean from their bodies. He imagined that they had teeth, ferocious snapping teeth that they used to tear each other apart. Would they feel pain like this? He wondered.

He felt pain now. Pain that caused the butterflies with their pretty colours to disintegrate before his eyes. They were gone.

Seungmin had shoved his cock into Minho’s anus, his arms grasping Minho’s thighs as he pummelled into him. Each thrust was like an electric volt shocking him from the core. He was being fucked so hard his body jostled forward and backward. His gaze drifted from the ceiling and he saw that Seungmin was staring down at him, his eyes two ireful crescents, his mouth pressed into a thin line. With each thrust, a low grunt escaped from his throat, and his gaze grew colder.

Minho was disgusted to see his own cock twitching and bouncing against his tight belly. It was as though there was a disconnect between his brain and body. His brain had given up on life, but his body had a life of its own. 

His world had constricted to the pressure in his core, the cock splitting his ass and… And the knife that lay unsheathed next to Seungmin. 

He wanted to yell at himself, to tell himself that it was hopeless, that Seungmin was going to end him – to just let him end him. He felt feverish and delirious, and the ache in his body, the ache in his hole, the hot burn that filtered through him, all told him that couldn’t do it. But he couldn’t help that indignant part of him that wanted to live, that believed that he could live.

Seungmin’s dark hair fell over his forehead and his almond eyes glinted, spreading Minho’s legs further apart, fucking him harder and deeper, pounding into him like a freight train trying to barrel its way through his stomach. 

Minho’s fingers trembled as they inched towards the knife. A little further…

But Seungmin’s hips stilled, and his lips curved into a smile. “Always such a deceitful bitch.”

Minho’s fingers had barely touched the knife handle when Seungmin swiped it off the floor and plunged it into Minho’s palm. The pain wasn’t new – it just joined the accretion of pain that was already thundering through him, creating an unending cacophony. 

Minho couldn’t hear himself scream anymore. Perhaps his voice had abandoned him, or his senses were all lost. 

Maybe that’s why he hadn’t heard whatever had put Seungmin on high-alert. He was standing up now, pulling up his jeans. 

The knife was still protruding from Minho’s palm. But he couldn’t reach… Didn’t want to…  _ Yes, just leave it there. Just die, Minho. _

Seungmin was crossing to the room door now, the baseball bat slung over his shoulder. He looked back at Minho, a bright smile on his face, saying something that Minho couldn’t hear. He could feel his vision leaving him, black spots blocked out his surroundings. 

But he could just about make out the vague outline of a face hovering above his own. He didn’t know who it was. 

But at least, they didn’t smell like citrus and pine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. All comments are appreciated. Reach out to me if there's something you'd like to talk about  
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CuriousCat


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